


Isildur's Heirs

by cruisedirector



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Background Het, Canon Era, Closeted Character, Elves, Explicit Sexual Content, Fellowship of the Ring, First Time, Gondor, Jewelry, M/M, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-23
Updated: 2002-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lords of Gondor encounter one another on the night before the Council meets in Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isildur's Heirs

**Author's Note:**

> PWP, movieverse, explicit and definitely a/u. Thanks to the Middle Earth Encyclopedia for some background information.

Aragorn walked into the dimness falling upon Rivendell, holding Arwen's necklace clasped in his palm. Never had he felt so unworthy of the love of an elf. He knew her father had been right to make his Evenstar wait before binding herself to a foolish young mortal, though Arwen's determination had never wavered. She was certain that the weakness of Isildur did not flow in his veins, yet Aragorn knew better. If he could be tempted by the son of the Steward of Gondor, how could he resist the allure of the Ring?

While Aragorn sat reading near the shrine to his ancestor, the man had come to stand before the mural. Though they had never met, the Ranger recognized Boromir at once, by his bearing as well as his dress. Though built like a warrior, the Captain of the White Tower had none of the clumsiness of a soldier at court. He carried his broad shoulders and heavy muscles proudly, and his hair gleamed like a crown of gold. Aragorn was not certain whether the heat that blazed through his loins signified his desire to touch the man or to become like him, as though such youth and confidence as Boromir displayed were already lost to the long-exiled prince.

The younger man gazed with reverence upon the tribute to Aragorn's ancestor. Holding the hilt of Narsil, Boromir did not seem to remember Isildur's quick fall to death and ruin -- only the hero's moment of triumph when by destroying Sauron he saved all the men of his kingdom and the elves besides. When the blade cut his finger, Boromir reacted as though he had received an honorable scar of battle, or perhaps as if he had made a blood-pact with the kings of old. The man glowed with pride and spirit, not the expected sophistication and steadiness of a Steward's heir presumptive. Though Aragorn knew he should leave Boromir his privacy, he found that he could not tear his eyes from the man.

Thus did Boromir discover him staring, an intruder on a very private communion with history. No matter that the shards of Narsil belonged to Aragorn by birthright; the young warrior assumed his watcher to be the mere Ranger he appeared, not his secret liege. The two men locked eyes, and Aragorn wondered at the smoldering fervor of the other's gaze. He knew better than to smile and try to shrug the moment off as unimportant, yet he felt uncharacteristically nervous in the presence of this stranger who was really none.

Boromir glared for a moment, then strode off, allowing the venerated weapon to fall to the floor in his haste. By the time Aragorn had replaced it, bowing in respect to an ancestor he feared to understand, Arwen had appeared. She glowed as brightly as Boromir, but with a different fire -- mystic, sacrosanct, inviolate. Aragorn sometimes feared to touch her lest he should sully her.

Now he lifted her necklace to his throat, watching tiny rainbows dance off the silver and crystal. Could wearing such beauty transform him into a symbol of radiance like the Evenstar? He doubted it. Neither Elrond nor Legolas had the same numinous quality. He did not understand why such a being as Arwen had chosen him, nor how he could deserve her, short of conquering the fear she had named for him: "You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it."

"That is far too pretty a bauble to wear with a Ranger's vest." Startled, Aragorn jerked his head up to see Boromir watching him with a curious smile. "Is that a present for your lady?"

"She is my betrothed," Aragorn answered with a touch of anger, irked at himself for having allowed the other man to sneak upon him and watch him with Arwen. "It is not a gift for her, but from her, a treasure of infinite value to me no matter how it looks with my vest."

"Then you had best be careful not to lose it." Boromir took several long strides to where the Ranger stood, slid his hands over Aragorn's holding the chain, and moved around him to attach the clasp at the back of his neck.

The feel of the younger man pushing his hair aside sent a wave of heat through Aragorn's body. He thought it wrong to let another handle Arwen's gift, yet he ached for Boromir to keep touching him. The man's breath tickled behind his ear, fingers trailing across his collarbone as they settled the necklace around his throat. Aragorn's own breath caught. He felt Boromir stop moving before deliberately stroking Aragorn's long hair back in place.

"Thank you," Aragorn said awkwardly.

"How do they call you?" asked Boromir, pacing around so that they stood face to face. It was an interesting question, understanding that he would not learn the Ranger's true name, yet presuming to know his identity from his outward appearance.

"I am called Strider. Though here in Rivendell, there are some who call me Estel."

"I am Boromir of Gondor." The man did not cite his titles as son of the Steward and Captain of the White Tower. "You must know the elves well, to have earned an elvish name and the love of an elvish princess. What brings you to Rivendell?"

"I accompanied a band of hobbits from Bree. They had business with Gandalf the Grey, but could not meet with him until they reached Rivendell. The road is not safe for travelers now."

Boromir's eyes lit with interest. "I have heard that one of the halflings was injured by a Morgul blade. Are the rumors true -- do the Nazgûl ride?"

"I know little about it. I am sure Lord Elrond will explain matters at the council tomorrow." He knew he might have cause to regret the lie later when Boromir learned his real name and his role. But this evening he did not wish to think about possible conflicts that lay ahead. "Were you summoned to Rivendell?" he asked instead.

"I was already on my way to seek counsel. My brother and I have been plagued by dreams that make me fear for the future of Gondor." Boromir shook his head as if to clear it.

"Perhaps you need wives to share your beds and cure your nightmares," Aragorn suggested with a smile, making Boromir laugh aloud.

"Now you sound like my father. He cannot decide whether he wants to send me off on another campaign or get me wedded to continue the family line. But what wife would put up with me?"

"I am sure there are many who can appreciate your assets." The younger man stared at Aragorn for a moment before the fair skin of his face flushed brightly. Surely as the son of Denethor, Boromir must often have women seeking his company, the Ranger mused while he gazed at the striking figure. "You look the part of a great lord."

"And you...look the part of a Ranger."

Now it was Aragorn's turn to burst into laughter. But as he threw his head back, he could see Boromir studying him, assessing. "You do not like Rangers?" he demanded.

Boromir's cheeks turned an even darker shade of red. "You men of Númenor would seem very exotic with your black clothes and your blades. It is said that some Rangers choose the wild because they are wild men."

Despite his discomfiture, the Steward's heir sounded as though he might be trying to draw Aragorn out. "And does that trouble you?" he challenged, thrusting out his chin. Boromir graced him with a sheepish smile.

"It puts me on my guard. I do not know whether to feel uneasy or stimulated by your presence."

Now this was definitely sport, demanding an answer. Aragorn put his hands on Boromir's shoulders and, when the man did not flinch but met his eyes steadily, drew him in and kissed him. Boromir did not pull away, though Aragorn could feel him stiffen with shock. He released Boromir, stepping back, but as he did so, Boromir put out his hands to catch Aragorn around the upper arms.

"Perhaps I should feel both," he murmured.

It was all the invitation Aragorn needed. He slid forward until his arms had wrapped around Boromir's waist and their thighs rubbed together. This time Boromir pressed his lips to Aragorn's rather forcefully, his fingers tightening around Aragorn's shoulders. The Ranger parted his lips and their tongues met, Boromir's prodding and competitive, Aragorn's gently exploring.

The younger man emitted a quiet sound of pleasure. He turned slightly, and Aragorn could feel his desire prodding through his clothing.

"I am sorry..." Boromir began at the same time Aragorn spoke.

"You are as magnificent as the sculptures in Elrond's hall."

"My body betrays me. It has some other master than my will." The Ranger slid his hands down to grip Boromir's hips, causing Boromir to thrust forward involuntarily. "I am sorry to have so little control."

"There is no need to apologize. I share your desire." Aragorn lifted a hand to stroke his thumb across a cheekbone and over lips swollen from kissing, eliciting a sigh from his companion. "Come to my room, Boromir."

The other man's shoulders sagged, then stiffened. "I cannot."

"You cannot or you will not?"

"I am the son of the Steward of Gondor. I cannot lie with...a Ranger."

The slight pause revealed what Aragorn hesitated to ask. "You mean you cannot lie with a man."

"Indeed I cannot." From the catch in Boromir's voice, Aragorn could hear what the reiteration cost him. "My father expects me to take a wife, as do my soldiers. Some of them are surprised I do not have a mistress already."

"But that is not what you want."

"It does not matter what I want."

"It matters to me. Come, let me show you. No one need ever know but ourselves."

"Someone might see us together..."

"No one in Rivendell would think anything of it. The elves do not gossip and judge private affairs as men do."

"Not even the elf who gave you that necklace?"

"Arwen has long encouraged me to stay true to my own path. I do not know what she would say if she knew I had lain with a man, but I do not think it would shock her." Guilt stabbed at Aragorn. Arwen's love for him seemed almost innocent at times; her kisses were warm yet chaste, and she would not invite him to her bed until they were wedded. He had little doubt of what Elrond would say if he found his future son-in-law in an intimate embrace with the son of the Steward of Gondor. Elrond already believed him to be too immature for Arwen.

He had dithered too long. Boromir's eyes, which moments before had held thunder and looming rain, now reflected the bleak green-gray color of a winter sea. "Your feelings are torn as well," the warrior said grimly. "We have only just met. We should attend to our duties."

Aragorn knew that on the morrow at the council, Boromir would more than likely discover his true identity, and that would create a rift between them far greater than the issues of propriety separating them now. "Boromir, stay," he asked. "Walk with me awhile. Tell me of the White City."

The younger man's face brightened, and he began to speak of his home, accompanying Aragorn through the wild gardens of Rivendell. He spoke of his struggles with his father and their battles for Gondor with a passion like that which had lit his face as he gazed upon the mural of Isildur. Boromir's large, expressive hands mesmerized the Ranger as he described the glorious buildings and dazzling armor of Ecthelion.

When the night air grew cool, they went inside, still conversing as they passed the dining hall and Elrond's great library. Finally they reached the door of Aragorn's rooms.

"Come in and have a drink, for the long walk has parched my throat," he said casually. Boromir followed him through with a stride that seemed unconcerned, flicking his eyes from wall to wall, feigning disinterest in the decorations and Aragorn's belongings, though Aragorn guessed that he was cataloguing them all. There were few enough; the Ranger's true treasure at Rivendell, his ancestor's sword, was on public display.

"These rooms are sparser than you are used to," Aragorn guessed.

"One needs few luxuries at Rivendell; the elves provide well for us." Boromir's blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the sconces on the wall. "But I cannot help missing Minas Tirith. Do you never get lonely in the wild?"

"Sometimes I long for companionship. But there are few who know my heart."

"I understand. There are few who know mine." Their eyes met and held.

In two long strides, Aragorn was at the other man's side. The kiss Boromir gave him was ferocious, knocking him back to the wall. "Somehow you see through me, Strider," he panted. "I do not understand. Yet I have no will to resist you."

Aragorn twisted, rotating them through the doorway that separated the living rooms from his bedchamber. There he pressed Boromir against the frame, giving as greedily as he took. The younger man's arms grew tense when Aragorn released the clasp on his tunic, yet he pulled away the material with his own hands. Aragorn slid his fingers down to pull Boromir against him, reveling in the feel of his hardness through the leather and cloth that bound it.

"I would know you, my warrior," he murmured into the man's throat. Boromir groaned and thrust into his hands as Aragorn began to unfasten his belt and push aside his breeches. The sharp scent of arousal rose between them. "Let me taste you..."

"Do not..." But Boromir choked on the words as Aragorn fell to his knees, his mouth upon Boromir's cock before he had finished tugging the layers of cloth out of the way. He could see Boromir braced in the doorway above him, eyes wide with excitement and a fearful fascination. Aragorn closed his eyes and took him as far in as his throat would allow, eliciting shuddering moans as Boromir helplessly thrust his hips.

A hand descended to stroke Aragorn's hair, nudging at his cheek before falling away. Evidently the Steward's son had no idea how desirable he was. Aragorn had been a beautiful youth; elves and men both had cherished him, teaching him pleasure as he grew to manhood. Yet Boromir seemed maddened by his own body's responses, trying to quiet himself and stop the writhing that so excited Aragorn.

"Strider," Boromir whispered urgently. "Stop, before I shame us both." His entire body trembled as his erection twitched forcefully against Aragorn's tongue. "Please, I cannot control...ahhh!"

Overwhelmed by his need, Boromir bucked wildly. He pulled out of Aragorn's mouth, pressing against his throat while his strong hands held the Ranger in place. Hot seed spurted over Aragorn's skin, wetting his hair and the side of his face. He was sorry Boromir had not understood that he would gladly have swallowed it, but happy to be able to see the younger man's face when he reached his peak. Boromir's eyes were clenched shut, his lips rounded in a long groan of pleasure. Sweat ran down his neck and over his chest. He glowed like a tower in sunlight.

Too soon, however, he stepped away and covered his face with a hand. "I am sorry. I could not stop myself." Embarrassment made his voice thick. Rising quickly, Aragorn reached for his shoulder.

"Never apologize for showering me with your desire." He smiled but Boromir did not meet his eyes. In a more serious tone, he added, "I wanted to please you."

When Boromir finally looked up, wary and guarded, he raised his fingers hesitantly to wipe at the wetness on the side of Aragorn's face. "It does not offend you?"

"Why should it?"

"I had thought only whores allowed themselves to be treated so."

Aragorn was startled. Though Boromir had confessed his lack of experience with other men, the Ranger had assumed that a man of his upbringing and appearance would have had dozens of women from many different paths. Perhaps, if he considered his urges shameful, he had not allowed himself much exploration. Carefully Aragorn said, "In my experience, such an act between willing partners may bring them both pleasure."

"My experience has mostly been with whores. Did...do you want me to do that to you?" Boromir's voice wavered, though Aragorn was uncertain whether it was the act itself or the newness of the situation that gave him pause.This was certainly not what he had expected of an encounter with Boromir of Gondor, whose reputation for fearlessness and innovation on the battlefield was known throughout Middle Earth. Aragorn had thought to find delight in a well-wrought body and perhaps a sense of kinship. Yet his uncertainty bordering on innocence had its own fierce sweetness.

"I want nothing that you do not also want," he promised Boromir. "Tell me, what did you hope for when you agreed to accompany me?"

"In truth, I did not know."

"What would you like now?"

He wondered whether the other man would make excuses and flee, but Boromir's pride and courtesy were stronger than his shame. And so, perhaps, were his longings. Boromir swallowed but held Aragorn's gaze. "I would like to see what you look like when you are not dressed as a Ranger."

"Then I will undress."

As Aragorn stripped off his clothes, he watched Boromir watching him. The other man removed his boots and the breeches from around his ankles, yet he kept his silk undershirt, which hung almost to the base of his groin. Aragorn started to suggest that he remove it, then decided that Boromir would do so when he felt comfortable.

When he was naked himself, feeling exposed at his companion's furtive scrutiny, he turned his open palm in the direction of the bed. "Will you sit with me?"

"I would like to lie down with you." The words came out in a rush. "But I do not know, I am not sure that I would like to lie with you..."

"Nothing will happen that you do not wish," Aragorn assured Boromir again. He walked around the left side of the bed and lay down, waiting while the other man followed more slowly on the right side. For a few minutes they simply rested side by side, shifting closer together as they settled among the pillows and feathers. Finally Boromir rolled toward Aragorn, who followed suit.

"I would like to touch you."

The words set Aragorn's heart racing, yet the confession hovered halfway between request and apology, triggering another wave of unexpected tenderness in him. Not for the first time, he worried what would happen when Boromir discovered the true identity of the man whose bed he shared, but his desire to be close to the man of Gondor dominated any misgivings. "Touch me," he whispered, hoping it would sound like neither a plea nor a command.

Slowly, but without any sign of nervousness, Boromir reached out to lay his hand flat against Aragorn's chest. The long-desired contact made the Ranger inhale sharply. Holding his gaze, Boromir stroked over his throat, the hollow above his collarbone, his nipples, the stripe of hair beneath his navel that led lower. By this point Aragorn felt ready to burst; he groaned and closed his eyes as the other man's fingers brushed over the head of his erection, then slid down to explore the length, tracing the veins, spreading moisture across the tip.

"This I know what to do with," noted Boromir in a wry voice. Aragorn opened his eyes to see that the warrior had drawn closer, face hovering over his own. They shared a hungry kiss that broke when Aragorn had to moan. "Do you like it, then?" Both of Boromir's hands were now rubbing him intimately, one gliding up and down the shaft, the other exploring behind it. A single finger traced a circle around the puckered opening. "Do you like that?"

"Yes, oh," Aragorn groaned, writhing not just from the physical sensations but the eagerness to please in his companion's voice. Reaching out blindly, he encountered Boromir's hip, then discovered as he clutched at him that the other man had grown hard again. Aragorn hesitated, not wanting to give any suggestion of trying to pressure Boromir into something he was unwilling to do, but in the end his own desire won out:

"Boromir. If you wish it, I very much want you inside me."

As Aragorn had feared, Boromir stilled, though he did not flinch or look away. "You would let me...?" His breathing grew harsh and for a moment Aragorn thought he had asked for too much. Then Boromir ducked his head and murmured, "I have wanted this...but I did not dare to think..."

"Please, before I beg you."

Finally the younger man smiled. "You do not need to beg. Are you sure I will not hurt you?"

"Give me one moment." Aragorn rose swiftly to find the oils and ointments that were always in plentiful supply at Rivendell, where the elves made sweet potions from the many herbs that grew in the rich soil. "Here," he said, returning to the bed with a bottle. "This will ease the way." Seeing that Boromir had at last removed his shirt, Aragorn poured some of the liquid into his palm and stroked it over his companion's fully erect cock, which quivered and jolted at the touch. "Now you must put some on me."

Aragorn waited for Boromir to rise to his knees before getting on all fours, afraid of disturbing him with the clumsy details of lovemaking between men. But Boromir's touch was eager as he smoothed oil over and around the wrinkled aperture that reveled in his touch. "Let me feel your fingers. Like so. Oh!" The first small penetration sent a wave of fire through Aragorn. "Please, now," he demanded, all restraint obliterated.

Boromir moved close and thrust inside too rapidly for comfort, forcing Aragorn to spend a moment just getting his breath back after gulping back a cry. Clearly, this was not a man accustomed to gentle lovemaking. Yet Boromir's instincts were keen, and he paused.

"Am I hurting you?" When Aragorn shook his head -- he did not yet trust his voice -- Boromir whispered, "This is beyond any feeling I have imagined." Then his hand went around Aragorn's side to grasp the rigid shaft between his legs. He slid his slippery fingers up and down, keeping his thrusts shallow, waiting for Aragorn to move with him, to bend and arch in welcome.

It did not take long. One deep stroke, two, and Aragorn erupted, spraying his seed over the bed. His shouts reverberated within the chamber. Before they faded, Boromir began to move in a steady rhythm, driving in and out with vigilant control. He jerked suddenly, dug his fingers hard into the flesh of Aragorn's thighs, and cried out "Strider!" in a voice of unrestrained joy as release overcame him.

They lay together afterwards, curled close where the sheets were dry, with the younger man murmuring his gratitude and the Ranger promising him that the pleasure had been his. But Aragorn could not convince Boromir to stay the night. "It would not be seemly for me to be seen leaving your rooms before dawn," the warrior insisted, and Aragorn feared that any more attempts at persuasion might seem like possessiveness. Neither of them knew what the morrow might hold.

They said regretful goodnights and slept in their own beds. Aragorn did not change the covers, so Boromir's scent stayed with him until he woke. But he did not see him again until Elrond convened the Council. Bedecked like a prince, Boromir nodded to Aragorn as he sat. He sat unsmiling, and all the tensions and responsibilities with which he rode to Rivendell seemed to hold him in their clasp.

Aragorn was saddened by the younger man's naïveté when he proposed using the Ring to protect Gondor. For most of his life, he knew, Boromir had watched his father's good intentions falter as the threats to their borders increased; he had done everything in his own power to defend the White City, but Aragorn knew he feared that it would all come to naught. Still, he knew that someone must speak to convince Boromir of the folly of trying to control the Ring, and fondly he hoped that Boromir would trust him enough to listen to him.

"You cannot wield it. None of us can. The Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir turned to him with the eyes of a stranger, or perhaps the look of the man who had glanced at Aragorn before Isildur's mural so many hours before. "What would a Ranger know of this matter?" he asked, with a bitter, private edge in his voice.

Legolas spoke before Aragorn could formulate a reply. "He is no mere Ranger! This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

The words seemed to hit Boromir like a slap from the flat of a sword. He breathed deeply, his shock evident on his features. "Aragorn." The warrior spoke the name as if tasted bitter on his tongue; the betrayal that flickered through his eyes was more hurtful than the disgust in his voice. "This is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor."

"Sit down, Legolas," Aragorn said in the elf's own language. He knew that Legolas assumed the scorn of Boromir's tone stemmed from lack of respect for the man who roamed the wilds, rather than the personal duplicity of a lover. Aragorn understood full well what he had done to Boromir; he had shattered the man's private code of behavior, and now, it seemed, he would challenge for the right to speak for the country he loved.

"Gondor has no king," said Boromir, looking at Legolas. Then, turning to Aragorn: "Gondor needs no king." His voice dripped contempt, but not all of the loathing was directed outward. Aragorn wished there were some way to assure Boromir of his regret, even his affection, but it was too late. When the Ring began to burn, when the minds of all present were swayed by its dark anger, Boromir was the most susceptible of all.

Even as Aragorn swore to protect Frodo by his life or death, making Boromir feel he must swear the same in the name of Gondor, he knew the dangers he had inadvertently created by trying to bring brief joy into both their lives. After the council adjourned, he spent several hours trying to speak to Boromir alone, but the other man threw himself into the preparations for their journey and was constantly accompanied by Gimli, the tagalong hobbits or one of the other men at Rivendell.

Finally, on the night before they were to depart, Aragorn spotted Boromir standing alone before Isildur's shrine. He approached quietly, admiring as he had before the powerful shoulders and gleaming hair of the Captain of the White Tower. "You cut a striking figure, Boromir," Aragorn said softly, startling the younger man out of his reverie.

"Have you come here to seek the wisdom of your ancestors?" he demanded harshly.

"I came looking for you. I have wanted to speak to you. To tell you that I am sorry, though I did not mean to deceive you. I planned to tell you my true name, but there did not seem to be a moment when it was right to speak of it."

"The moment when we met would have been suitable. Or when I asked how you were called. At the very least, you might have told me what name to hold in my thoughts when..." Boromir bit back the rest of his words, but Aragorn knew he meant when they had made love.

"In truth, I never meant to hurt you. Nor am I your rival, Boromir. I offer my friendship. My sword, should you need it. And..." Aragorn paused, fearing to replace one betrayal with another. "...and my heart, if you will have it."

Boromir turned with an expression of such aching need that Aragorn stepped forward to embrace him. But the man's words stopped him in place. "My heart belongs only to Gondor," he grated. "There can be no other love for me. You have shown me that. I will march with you on this journey, and I will defend you with my sword, but I will never call you brother, and I do not want your heart."

"Son of Gondor, you have it nonetheless," murmured Aragorn when the other man's back had disappeared beyond the pillars. Turning, he gazed at the mural of Isildur, his kin. Which was the greater folly, he wondered -- to love in the face of ruin, or to cling to power that was not one's own to wield?

Aragorn did not know. He would not have wished Isildur's fate on any other man, yet it was possible that he unwittingly had set Boromir on the same dark path. There was only one recourse if Boromir would not forgive him, only one vow he could make that might set things right.

"I swear that I will defend the kingdom that he loves," whispered Aragorn, eyes shut in entreaty. "Come what may, I will fight for Minas Tirith with all the strength that is in me. No matter what Boromir should think of me, I will look after all my people. Hear me, Isildur -- your bane may end my life, but it will not destroy what I hold dear."

A loud clatter made Aragorn's eyes fly open. The hilt of Narsil had fallen to the floor, in precisely the same spot where it had landed when Boromir had let it slip days before. The heir to the throne of Gondor lifted his birthright back to its spot of reverence. As he moved, light reflecting off the broken sword struck the charm on his necklace, sending rainbow beams over the image on the mural.

Aragorn set off to say his goodbyes to Arwen, knowing that his oath had been heard and accepted.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Drabble: Kingdom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/173853) by [Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels)




End file.
